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Wade stepped into the familiar arena as usual.
For some reason, he felt the air in the arena was different today. It wasn't because the game was particularly important. Sure, it was a Lakers game on national TV, which was why he was there, but even so, it was just a regular season game. Wade stood on the sidelines, putting on his headset, took a deep breath, and greeted the acquaintances around him. Lakers games were never short of legends and celebrities. After greeting everyone he could name, he adjusted the various devices hanging on his body, and only then did he have time to try to figure out in his mind where this vague anxiety and unease in his heart today came from.
As the players came out of the tunnel one by one, wearing their training gear, Wade then felt something ticked in his mind. Almost immediately, he grasped what was going on today, and at the same time, he felt frustrated that he hadn't noticed it at first. It took him this long to figure it out.
He did not receive any messages from Bron today.
This wasn't really anything unusual, Wade thought. Being a player felt like a lifetime ago to him. That's how this league works: once you retired, people quickly seal you away in their memories, categorizing you into different cabinets and put a lock on them. The game wouldn't stop for anyone, everything kept moving forward. Wade had gone from a participant to an observer. The entire world of NBA could be collapsing, which might be affecting him, yet also detached from him. Wade shook his head inwardly, reminding himself. He always forgot this; he always unconsciously thought he was still a part of this, an active player. He knew perfectly well that things were different now, but he knew even more clearly that deep down, he instinctively refused to accept it. Like tonight, his instincts, the unmistakable player instincts that only belonged to a basketball player, were stirring again. He was worrying about things only players and coaches should worry about, not what a commentator should worry about.
Can’t blame myself, can’t I? Wade thought, he might have been a little bitter about it. It’s clearly all Bron’s fault. Yes, it was all Bron's fault. Wade was quite pleased with this conclusion. After all, when he recalled his glorious days of playing, the one person he couldn't get away or hide from was Bron, people can’t talk about Wade without talking about LeBron. And this person was going to play another game tonight. Wade continued watching him; he now even had more than sufficient reason to stare at him intently for the entire match, to let the whole world hear his opinion of Bron. But things were no longer the same.
It's not surprising that he didn't receive a message from Bron tonight, because he's no longer the person Bron would message every day.
But this was nonetheless very unusual, Wade thought. He had no evidence, no reason or logic, but he just had a gut feeling. Wade had always been very confident in his intuition when it came to matters related to Bron. Something was definitely not right.
With plenty of time before the game, Wade excused himself, weaved through the crowd, and headed towards the home team's locker room. It was somewhat against protocol, and he felt a pang of guilt as he walked, but his face card seemed to be working, and no staff member or security approached to question him. Near the locker room, Wade ran into Reddick at the corner.
It was both unexpected and expected at the same time.
"Hey," JJ greeted him first. As always, the Lakers head coach had his hair neatly combed and gelled to perfection. Wade felt that coaching had aged JJ by several years. Bron also looked several years older, Wade thought, perhaps playing with the Lakers meant not being spared the ravages of time after all. Looking at himself in the mirror, Wade felt as if he had just retired last year.
“Hey,” Wade smiled at JJ, “You’ve seen Bron around?”
JJ raised one eyebrow, somewhat surprised: "You haven't heard?"
Wade spread his hands and shrugged: "He didn't tell me nothing... It's just arthritis, I mean, we ALL have that."
JJ smiled with his head down, still holding the tactical board in his hand, seemingly on his way to the conference room for his pregame meeting. Logically, he didn't have time to stop and chat with Wade, as the game was about to start. Nevertheless, he thought for a moment, lowered his voice, and covered his lips with his hand, whispered to Wade, "Maybe you should ask him."
“That’s why I’m here,” Wade replied, “but I haven’t found him yet.”
“Oh…” JJ looked like he understood. “Over there,” he pointed in another direction, “just keep your voice down.”
With just that one sentence, Wade instantly knew what was going on. The other side of the corridor was almost completely dark, and there was hardly anyone there. Wade walked in the dim light, with only the night lights hanging low at his feet, seeming to watch him like eyes in the dark. Wade considered himself quite familiar with Crypto Arena, but this corridor seemed nonexistent in his memory. He guessed that it must have been not open to away team, which was why it was so inconspicuous. At the end of the corridor was a room with a "Do Not Disturb" sign that was clearly taken from the medical room. Instead of stopping people from scrutinizing, it served more like a signboard there, a sign for other people to know that someone was in the room.
An invite.
Wade guessed that although the door was closed, it shouldn't be locked, otherwise JJ would definitely have asked someone to open it for him or something. There was a window on the door, but it had been tinted so that Wade couldn't see inside. He could only vaguely see his own reflection in it, arms crossed, looking like he was deep in thought.
Wade was indeed thinking; he was recalling old memories, things from long ago. Wade was thinking about 2014, that hot and humid night in San Antonio without air conditioning, filled with sweats.
Wade stood in front of the treatment room, the door ajar, letting in wisps of cool air. The air conditioning in the venue hasn’t started working yet, and the space felt like a sauna, stuffy and hot. He had just showered, but a thin film of sweat has already appeared on his forehead. It was quiet all around, so quiet that he could hear the hum of the portable cold fan inside. He wondered how the staff had managed to get one. He didn't hesitate long, partly because the cool air was so tempting, and partly because he had no patience to wait. He needed to see Bron, now, immediately.
“It’s quite cool in here,” Wade said, casually walking into the room and finding himself a chair to sit down. The chair was a bit small, and there wasn’t enough room for his legs. Bron, who was lying on the treatment bed, pointed to a footstool and gestured for Wade to move it over so he could put his legs up. He was raising his right hand; his left arm still had an IV line attached. Wade ignored him, moved the chair closer to Bron’s head instead, and carefully examined him. Bron glanced at him, said nothing. He only blinked.
“You look much better than when you came off the court,” Wade said, reaching out to touch Bron’s broad shoulders to check his temperature. “Much cooler.”
"Hmm," Bron groaned weakly, still bothered by Wade not bringing a footstool. "How are you?"
“You worry about yourself,” Wade said with a laugh. “Nonono, you don’t get to worry about where I put my leg. Let’s be honest, I’m more concerned about whether your legs will cramp up again.”
"Probably not," Bron muttered, burying his head in his arms. He sounded angry and frustrated about losing the game. Wade listened attentatively, then looked at his ostrich-like form and sensed a hint of childish stubbornness.
“It’s okay,” Wade leaned closer. “Losing is okay. This match, this year, it’s all okay.” Seeing that Bron didn’t react, Wade suddenly felt an urge to laugh. “Hey Bron, would you pay attention to me?” He placed his hand on Bron’s shoulder and gently squeezed it, trying to get his attention. To be honest, he wasn’t feeling any relief after seeing Bron, because Bron hadn’t looked up at him. Thinking back to the match, he was still a bit shaken, after all, he had never seen Bron play to the point of cramping up.
Bron should be invincible, Wade thought. Something as human as getting a cramp shouldn't happen to him. That was too normal. Yet it did happen, he witnessed it firsthand. Wade stared blankly at the white wall in front of him, his hand on Bron's shoulder stroking it lightly, almost unconsciously. AT&T Center wasn't somewhere strange, but this room was a first for Wade. It felt like returning to their draft day, to their first meeting in the medical room, evoking a strong sense of nostalgia.
“Hey,” he called Bron’s name again, “show me your face. I need to see your face.”
After another long silence, Bron finally lifted his head from his arms and rested it on the back of his hand. His eyes were squeezed together. He had been looking down, perhaps with his eyes closed, and the bright light in the room clearly made him uncomfortable. "What's there to see?" he complained, squinting. "You've seen it so many times."
“Never too many times for your pretty face,” Wade said instinctively, not caring whether it sounded like flirting. So what if it was flirting? Wade thought dismissively. The whole league knew what was going on between them; Bron was the most obvious candidate for the person that Wade should’ve been flirting with.
Bron managed his first real smile since the game, but it didn't last long before his face fell again. He buried his head in the pillow again, but he was a little more considerate to Wade this time, stretching out one arm and letting it hang loosely over the edge of the bed, swaying it casually. After a few swings, it just so happened to land on Wade's arm.
"What's the matter?" Wade asked knowingly, his remaining hand naturally resting on the back of Bron's. He dared not make any other movements. Bron was certainly not fragile, but he had to be treated with uttermost care now, and Wade almost wanted to hold his breath. There was no need to be so afraid, Wade told himself, Bron was right in front of him, perfectly fine; yet his hand trembled involuntarily, more unsteady than the one currently lying listlessly in bed. He felt a lingering fear; he couldn't quite sort out his feelings, only an instinctive sense of dread.
Bron nuzzled against the pillow and let out a soft whimper, almost sounded like a complaint. Wade's heart leaped into his throat, but he kept his voice down and whispered in Bron's ear, "What is it? If you don't tell me, I'm going to call the whole team medical staff over. I can make a scene, and trust me, I will."
“…Headache, probably migraine.” Bron struggled to think for a while, then seemed to decide to tell the truth, “right after the game, thought it was just dehydration.”
The short, chopped sentences did little to ease Wade's anxiety: "Are you sure about that? Did you collide with someone during the game? Someone hit your neck? Why didn't you say something? It could’ve well been a concussion ya know..."
“No,” Bron softly interrupted his rambling, as if he had mustered some strength to lift his upper body and catch his breath. “It just happens sometimes…this room is too damn bright.” He braced himself against one side of the bed, his head bowed, as if afraid of being blinded by the light.
Wade frowned. "Then all those flashes at the press conference..." He stopped abruptly. Press conferences, arenas and events were always brightly lit, illuminating even the smallest corners. Just like everything about him and Bron at Heat, everything about them, was laid bare under the lights, visible to everyone.
“I’ll turn off the light.” Wade walked to the door and turned off the incandescent light in the room, leaving only an energy-saving bulb emitting a soft, dim yellow light. Under the light, Bron’s expression was somewhat blurry, or perhaps it was just his own imagination. Wade sat down next to him, his arm close to Bron’s. Bron’s arm still felt warm, unlike his own, which was slightly cool from sweat.
Neither of them spoke. Wade noticed that the room was surprisingly soundproof; he couldn't hear any outside noise, perhaps because the crowd had dispersed. In the four years he and Bron had been together, they had never experienced such a peaceful moment. This was different from 2011. In Dallas the locker room was suffocatingly silent. In San Antonio this room was simply quiet, no one spoke, and only body heat conveyed what had to be said.
"I'm sorry," Bron finally muttered. He didn't explain why; there were too many things he needed to apologize to Wade for, and he couldn't explain them all at once.
“Don’t,” Wade gripped his arm tightly, “Don’t say that again. We don’t need that crap.” Before he finished speaking, a weight suddenly appeared on his shoulder. Wade turned to the side and pressed Bron’s head against his chest. It wasn’t an easy task, because Bron was much taller than him. But it turned out not to be too difficult, because Bron would always bow his head in front of him.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Wade patted his head. “Listen, I have three rings, that’s more than what you have already. I’ve got enough. This isn’t a big deal for me.” He didn’t know if this comforting reassurance would work, but when Bron’s shoulders started to tremble, Wade really panicked. “Hey, you can’t cry,” He felt cruel saying it himself, a sharp, invisible pain shooting through his chest. “No tears, not here, not right now…” he continued in Bron’s ear, “You’re still on an IV drip…” He stopped there. Bron understood the rest better than he did. Dehydration was no joke; the water he had painstakingly replenished shouldn’t be wasted on tears. Bron trembled violently in his arms, his heavy breathing occasionally reaching Wade’s ear, but Wade didn’t feel any dampness. He told Bron not to cry, and Bron complied without a single protest, not shedding a single tear.
“You really listened to me, I’m impressed.” Wade said, patting his shoulder once he calmed down. “You did what I asked of you.”
“Big deal,” Bron replied hoarsely, “do you have anything else that you’d like me to do?”
I’d like you to stay in Miami, would you do that for me? Wade thought, but in the end he didn't say it. He didn't want to abuse this privilege, nor did he want to gamble, because he couldn't know what Bron was thinking. He didn't know if Bron was expecting him to say that, or if he hoped that Wade would be an understanding teammate, stayed back and let him do what he was supposed to do..
“I do have one thing to ask,” Wade said.
Bron looked up at him, his expression relaxed, even a little...soft, completely different from the Bron Wade had seen on TV and on the court. They were the same person, yet they were different. Wade wondered if anyone else had ever seen Bron like this, and he wondered if he wanted anyone else to see this side of Bron. He wanted to have possession of this person, so that no one but himself would be able to see. Others? Others could just have that Bron who was both unstoppable and composed, someone who they could throw everything at: the good and the bad, the great and the pathetic. The public version of Bron could take them all, his broad shoulders could block everything, shield everything, whether they were noise or praise. Wade only wanted this Bron who was right in front of him, even though this Bron was about to leave, and Wade was about to lose him.
“I want to take a good look at you.” Wade leaned closer to Bron, pressing his forehead against Bron’s, his fingertips tracing the lines of the other’s jawline.
“You can’t possibly see my face, you’re way too close.” Bron said. “Shouldn’t we keep some distance so you can take a better look?”
“Shut up,” Wade said, closing his eyes. “I can see everything.”
"You’re full of sh*t.."
Bron was certainly not wrong; this way, Wade couldn't see his face. Bron was hardly ever wrong, he almost always got things right. But what Wade wanted was never just to look at his face.
Wade thought Bron had been in this league for far too long. Melo said he'd been there too long, turning himself into a villain; Wade disagreed, because the Miami Bron was already a so-called villain. He and Melo eventually became another suited-up men on the screen, and Bron was a topic they couldn't avoid discussing. They needed to talk about Bron constantly to get the most attention and clicks. People arbitrarily categorized Bron by team: the Cleveland Bron, the Miami Bron, the Cleveland 2.0 Bron, and the Lakers Bron, blahblahblah. Bron's career was so long that his early years were almost forgotten, or perhaps reduced to some inexplicable legend.
People always say Miami Bron was invincible, like some sort of super human. They say it so often that even Bron himself would sometimes joke about it. But all Wade could recall for Miami Bron was the moments in that hot summer night, in his arms, Bron was very much vulnerable, crying had been a luxury, and he had used every ounce of his remaining strength to stop himself from losing a tear. That was the Bron only he remembered, no on else. And then, after that grueling Finals, Bron would get himself together, appeared before reporters in a suit and tie, speaking composedly.
Bron repeatedly claimed that he didn't care about those who hated him, because they would wake up tomorrow morning to face the same problem as the day before. What Bron didn't say was that he cared about those who hated Wade, those who hated Wade because of him, and whether Wade could gracefully finish his career in this league with this team, because Wade absolutely deserved that.
But Bron had been in this league for too long. What seemed like earth-shattering hearkbreak back then, had now just become a chapter in his life, even if it was greatly dramatic and memorable, it's ultimately insignificant, because more had happened down the road, after he left.
Admitingly, Wade sometimes felt insecure about it. He's been afraid of going from "LeBron's guy for life" to "LeBron's closest teammate in Miami". He used to be quite certain about what he meant to Bron, but now he's less confident. He had always been ahead of Bron, winning a ring before him and starting a different life before him, while Bron stayed in the same place, with more and more people coming and going around him. Wade wasn’t sure if he'll still be that special person.
Never mind all that, Wade pulled himself back to reality. The reflection in the glass was still perfect, showing no sign of dejection. Wade raised his hand, tried to knock, then quickly lowered it. He thought for a moment, finally made up his mind, and was about to turn around when the door opened from the inside. He looked up sharply, and Bron's face appeared before him.
“You walk so loudly,” Bron complained. “I swear I can hear you miles away.”
“If you heard me, why aren’t you opening the door?” Wade said. “I came all this way to see you, your bodyguard almost threw me out and this is the sh*t I got from you?”
"Come on D, they know who you are, they’d never do that. Don’t you have things to do though? Why can’t you come and see me after the game?"
“No,” Wade replied curtly, “I want to see you now.” He looked Bron up and down. “Let’s see if this 41-year-old can win today.”
“Why are you doing this to me too, sh*t,” Bron muttered under his breath. “My ankle felt bad this morning.”
"And now?"
"I'm feeling better, but the headache is starting again..." Bron sighed. "These lights are too damn bright."
Wade listened to his rambling complaints and a smile appeared on his face: "But you're not resting? You're going to play?"
"Yeah, I’m playing, and we are taking the game." Bron wiped his face, stepped forward, and gave Wade a hug. He was still the same as always, naturally lowering his head when he hugged Wade, obediently pressing his head against Wade's neck and shoulder, as if he wanted to curl up into Wade's embrace, or as if he wanted to shield Wade from everything behind his back.
“Now that I see you, this game’s gonna be good.” Bron said.
“Oh, so I’m your lucky charm now?” Wade pinched his waist, and when Bron instinctively dodged, he wrapped his arms around him tightly and pulled him closer. There was absolutely no way he could restrain Bron in his arms, but Bron never broke free from him either.
“I have to go,” Wade said.
“I need to warm up too,” Bron replied.
They walked down the corridor side by side, then parted ways. Bron was going to the locker room, and Wade was heading to the courtside. They shook hands as they parted, and if their fingers had lingered a bit longer than they should, no one would have noticed.
END